The Mystery of How a Samurai Ended up in 17th Century Venice

It would­n’t sur­prise us to come across a Japan­ese per­son in Venice. Indeed, giv­en the glob­al touris­tic appeal of the place, we could hard­ly imag­ine a day there with­out a vis­i­tor from the Land of the Ris­ing Sun. But things were dif­fer­ent in 1873, just five years after the end of the sakoku pol­i­cy that all but closed Japan to the world for two and a half cen­turies. On a mis­sion to research the mod­ern ways of the new­ly acces­si­ble out­side world, a Japan­ese del­e­ga­tion arrived in Venice and found in the state archives two let­ters writ­ten in Latin by one of their coun­try­men, dat­ed 1615 and 1616. Its author seemed to have been an emis­sary of Ōto­mo Sōrin, a feu­dal lord who con­vert­ed to Chris­tian­i­ty and once sent a mis­sion of four teenagers to meet the Pope in Rome — a mis­sion that took place ear­li­er, in 1586.

So who could this undoc­u­ment­ed Japan­ese trav­el­er in the fif­teen-tens have been? That ques­tion lies at the heart of the sto­ry told by Evan “Nerd­writer” Puschak in his new video above. The let­ter’s sig­na­ture of Haseku­ra Roke­mon would’ve con­sti­tut­ed a major clue, but the name seems not to have rung a bell with any­one at the time.

“In 1873, there was like­ly no one on plan­et Earth who knew why Haseku­ra Roke­mon was in Venice in 1615,” says Puschak. The rea­sons have to do with the arrival of Chris­tian­i­ty in Japan — or at least the arrival of the first major Jesuit mis­sion­ary — in 1549. Not every ruler looked kind­ly on their work, and espe­cial­ly not Toy­oto­mi Hideyoshi, who ordered them removed from the coun­try in 1587 and lat­er had 26 Catholics cru­ci­fied in Nagasa­ki.

Hideyoshi was suc­ceed­ed by the more tol­er­ant Toku­gawa Ieya­su (1543–1616), dur­ing whose rule the Japan­ese-speak­ing Fran­cis­can fri­ar Luis Sote­lo arrived in Japan. Over the ensu­ing decade, he worked not just to spread his faith but also to build hos­pi­tals, one of which suc­cess­ful­ly treat­ed a Euro­pean con­cu­bine of the feu­dal lord Date Masamune. The two men got on, real­iz­ing the mutu­al ben­e­fit their rela­tion­ship could bring: per­haps Sote­lo could found a new dio­cese in Date’s north­ern ter­ri­to­ry, and per­haps Date could estab­lish links with the Span­ish empire. In order to accom­plish the lat­ter, he had a ship built and a team assem­bled for a mis­sion to Europe, includ­ing Sote­lo him­self. He sent with them a loy­al retain­er, a samu­rai by the name of Haseku­ra Roke­mon — or to use his full name, Haseku­ra Rokue­mon Tsune­na­ga, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his meet­ing with the pope and adop­tion of Roman cit­i­zen­ship. He may have been Japan­ese, but a mere tourist he cer­tain­ly was­n’t.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 17th Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Samu­rai Who Sailed to Europe, Met the Pope & Became a Roman Cit­i­zen

21 Rules for Liv­ing from Miyamo­to Musashi, Japan’s Samu­rai Philoso­pher (1584–1645)

A Mis­chie­vous Samu­rai Describes His Rough-and-Tum­ble Life in 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan

How to Be a Samu­rai: A 17th Cen­tu­ry Code for Life & War

Hand-Col­ored 1860s Pho­tographs Reveal the Last Days of Samu­rai Japan

Meet Yasuke, Japan’s First Black Samu­rai War­rior

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Far Back in History Can You Start to Understand English?

It’s easy to imag­ine the myr­i­ad dif­fi­cul­ties with which you’d be faced if you were sud­den­ly trans­port­ed a mil­len­ni­um back in time. But if you’re a native (or even pro­fi­cient) Eng­lish speak­er in an Eng­lish-speak­ing part of the world, the lan­guage, at least, sure­ly would­n’t be a prob­lem. Or so you’d think, until your first encounter with utter­ances like “þat troe is daed on gaerde” or “þa rokes for­leten urne tun.” Both of those sen­tences appear in the new video above from Simon Rop­er, in which he deliv­ers a mono­logue begin­ning in the Eng­lish of the fifth cen­tu­ry and end­ing in the Eng­lish of the end of the last mil­len­ni­um.

An Eng­lish­man spe­cial­iz­ing in videos about lin­guis­tics and anthro­pol­o­gy, Rop­er has pulled off this sort of feat before: we pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured him here on Open Cul­ture for his per­for­mance of a Lon­don accent as it evolved through 660 years.

But writ­ing and deliv­er­ing a mono­logue that works its way through a mil­len­ni­um and a half of change in the Eng­lish lan­guage is obvi­ous­ly a thornier endeav­or, not least because it involves lit­er­al thorns — the þ char­ac­ters, that is, used in the Old Eng­lish Latin alpha­bet. They’re pro­nounced like th, which you can hear when Rop­er speaks the sen­tences quot­ed ear­li­er, which trans­late to “The tree is dead in the yard” and “The rooks aban­doned our town.”

The word trans­late should give us pause, since we’re only talk­ing about Eng­lish. But then, Eng­lish has under­gone such a dra­mat­ic evo­lu­tion that, at far enough of a remove, we might as well be talk­ing about dif­fer­ent lan­guages. What Rop­er empha­sizes is that the changes did­n’t hap­pen sud­den­ly. Non-Scan­di­na­vian lis­ten­ers may lack even an inkling that his farmer of the year 450 is talk­ing about sheep and pigs with the words skēpu and swīnu, but his final lines, in which he speaks of pos­sess­ing “all the hot cof­fee I need” and “friends I did­n’t have in New York” in the year 2000, will pose no dif­fi­cul­ty to Anglo­phones any­where in the world. Even his list of agri­cul­tur­al wealth around the ear­ly thir­teenth cen­tu­ry — “We habben an god hus, we habben mani felds” — could make you believe that a trip 600 years in the past would be, as they said in Mid­dle Eng­lish, no trou­ble.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Trac­ing Eng­lish Back to Its Old­est Known Ances­tor: An Intro­duc­tion to Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean

Hear the Evo­lu­tion of the Lon­don Accent Over 660 Years: From 1346 to 2006

What Shakespeare’s Eng­lish Sound­ed Like, and How We Know It

Where Did the Eng­lish Lan­guage Come From?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

A Brief Tour of British & Irish Accents: 14 Ways to Speak Eng­lish in 84 Sec­onds

The Entire His­to­ry of Eng­lish in 22 Min­utes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover the First Depiction of Santa Claus (and Its Origins in Civil War Propaganda)

It will no doubt come as a relief to many read­ers that San­ta Claus appears to have been a Union sup­port­er. We know this because he appears dis­trib­ut­ing gifts to sol­diers from that side of the Mason-Dixon in one of his ear­li­est depic­tions. That illus­tra­tion, “San­ta Claus in Camp” (above), first appeared in the Harper’s Week­ly Christ­mas issue of 1862, when the Amer­i­can Civ­il War was still tear­ing its way through the coun­try. Its artist, a Bavar­i­an immi­grant named Thomas Nast, is now remem­bered for hav­ing first drawn the Demo­c­ra­t­ic Par­ty as a don­key and the Repub­li­can Par­ty as an ele­phant, but he also did more than any­one else to cre­ate the image of San­ta Claus rec­og­nized around the world today: more than Nor­man Rock­well, and more, even, than the Coca-Cola Com­pa­ny.

San­ta Claus is an Angli­ciza­tion of Sin­terk­laas, a Dutch name for Saint Nicholas, who lived and died in what’s now Turkey in the third and fourth cen­turies, and who’s been remem­bered since for his kind­ness to chil­dren. Few of us would rec­og­nize him in his por­trait from 1294 that is includ­ed in the Pub­lic Domain Review’s pic­to­r­i­al his­to­ry of San­ta Claus, but with the pass­ing of the cen­turies, his images became mixed with those of oth­er fly­ing, win­ter-asso­ci­at­ed char­ac­ters from Ger­man­ic and Norse myth. In 1822, Clement Moore per­formed a defin­ing act of rhyming syn­the­sis with his poem “A Vis­it from St. Nicholas” (often called “ ‘Twas the Night Before Christ­mas”): in its vers­es we find the bun­dle of toys, the rosy cheeks, the white beard, the bel­ly shak­ing like a bowl full of jel­ly.

Nast clear­ly under­stood not just the appeal of Moore’s descrip­tion, but also the char­ac­ter’s pro­pa­gan­da val­ue. His very first ren­di­tions of San­ta Claus appear in the upper cor­ners of an 1862 Harper’s Week­ly illus­tra­tion of a pray­ing wife and her Yan­kee sol­dier hus­band. Near­ly two decades lat­er, Nast drew the car­toon “Mer­ry Old San­ta Claus” (imme­di­ate­ly above), whose cen­tral fig­ure remains imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­niz­able to us today, even as its moti­vat­ing polit­i­cal cause of high­er wages for the mil­i­tary has become obscure. In the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, the icon­ic Father Christ­mas would be enlist­ed again to lend pub­lic sup­port to U.S. efforts in World War I and II, in the very decades when Rock­well was fur­ther refin­ing and cement­ing his image in pop­u­lar cul­ture. The once-unlike­ly result was an Amer­i­can San­ta Claus: “the sym­bol of our empire,” in the words of The New York­er’s Adam Gop­nik, “as much as Apol­lo was of the Hel­lenic one.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch San­ta Claus, the Ear­li­est Movie About San­ta in Exis­tence (1898)

Did San­ta Claus & His Rein­deers Begin with a Mush­room Trip?: Dis­cov­er the Psy­che­del­ic, Shaman­is­tic Side of Christ­mas

Hear “Twas The Night Before Christ­mas” Read by Stephen Fry & John Cleese

J. R. R. Tolkien Sent Illus­trat­ed Let­ters from Father Christ­mas to His Kids Every Year (1920–1943)

Bob Dylan Reads “ ‘Twas the Night Before Christ­mas” On His Hol­i­day Radio Show (2006)

Slavoj Žižek Answers the Ques­tion “Should We Teach Chil­dren to Believe in San­ta Claus?”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover 20 Historical Christmas Recipes: Fruitcake, Gingerbread, Figgy Pudding & More

One can hard­ly con­sid­er the Christ­mas sea­son for long, at least in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world, with­out the work of Charles Dick­ens com­ing to mind. That owes for the most part, of course, to A Christ­mas Car­ol, the novel­la that revived the pub­lic cul­ture of a hol­i­day that had been falling into desue­tude by the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. What­ev­er its lit­er­ary short­com­ings, the book offers a host of mem­o­rable images, not least culi­nary ones: Mrs. Cratchit’s pud­ding, for instance, which Dick­ens likens to “a speck­led can­non-ball, so hard and firm, blaz­ing in half or half-a-quar­tern of ignit­ed brandy, and bedight with Christ­mas hol­ly stuck into the top.”

In the Tast­ing His­to­ry video at the top of the post, host Max Miller teach­es you how to make just such a hol­i­day pud­ding — and indeed a fig­gy one, a con­fec­tion whose name we all rec­og­nize from no less a stan­dard car­ol than “We Wish You a Mer­ry Christ­mas,” even if we don’t know that pud­ding, in the Vic­to­ri­an sense, refers to a kind of cake.

The fig­gy pud­ding Miller makes from an orig­i­nal 1845 recipe looks, and seems to taste, more like an alco­hol-soaked ver­sion of the fruit­cakes many of us still receive come Christ­mas­time. Despite its rep­u­ta­tion for lead­en unde­sir­abil­i­ty, rein­forced by decade after decade of John­ny Car­son gags, the fruit­cake has a rich his­to­ry, which Miller reveals in the video just above, and culi­nary strengths beyond its extreme shelf life.

This playlist of 20 Christ­mas-themed videos offers many more such delights: Turk­ish delight, for instance, as well as Vic­to­ri­an sug­ar plums, medieval gin­ger­bread, and his­tor­i­cal ver­sions of such still-com­mon com­forts and joys as eggnog and pump­kin pie. And if you’ve ever won­dered to what was­sail — as a noun or a verb — actu­al­ly refers, have a look at the video above, in which Miller explains it all while mak­ing a pot of the stuff, which turns out to be a kind of apple­sauce-enriched ale. Was­sail, too, is a favorite Dick­ens ref­er­ence, and not just in A Christ­mas Car­ol. His first nov­el The Pick­wick Paperincludes a Christ­mas feast with “a mighty bowl of was­sail, some­thing small­er than an ordi­nary wash-house cop­per, in which the hot apples were hiss­ing and bub­bling with a rich look, and a jol­ly sound, that were per­fect­ly irre­sistible”: the kind of image that, near­ly two cen­turies lat­er, still makes read­ers want to go a‑wassailing.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Eudo­ra Welty’s Hand­writ­ten Eggnog Recipe, and Charles Dick­ens’ Recipe for Hol­i­day Punch

Try George Orwell’s Recipe for Christ­mas Pud­ding, from His Essay “British Cook­ery” (1945)

Charles Min­gus’ “Top Secret” Eggnog Recipe Con­tains “Enough Alco­hol to Put Down an Ele­phant”

How Eat­ing Ken­tucky Fried Chick­en Became a Christ­mas Tra­di­tion in Japan

Tast­ing His­to­ry: A Hit YouTube Series Shows How to Cook the Foods of Ancient Greece & Rome, Medieval Europe, and Oth­er Places & Peri­ods

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Life and Work of Afrobeat Creator Fela Kuti Explored by Radiolab’s Jad Abumrad

When dis­cussing a musi­cian like Fela Kuti, many of our usu­al terms fail us. They fail us, that is, if we came of age in a musi­cal cul­ture in which artists and bands put out an album of ten or so lyrics-for­ward songs every two or three years, pro­mot­ing it on tour while also play­ing their biggest hits. Fela — as all his fans refer to him — could put out six or sev­en albums in a sin­gle year, and refused to play live any mate­r­i­al he’d already record­ed. Even the word song, as we know it, does­n’t quite reflect the nature of his com­po­si­tions, which got expan­sive enough that two or three of them (or just one, half of it on each side) could fill a long-play­ing record.

Wal­ter Ben­jamin said of great lit­er­ary works that they either dis­solve a genre or invent one, and Fela’s musi­cal works invent­ed the genre of Afrobeat. The sound of that genre, as explained by Noah Lefevre in the Poly­phon­ic video above, reflects the dis­tinc­tive for­ma­tion of Fela him­self, who was born and raised in Nige­ria, stud­ied at the Trin­i­ty Col­lege of Music in Lon­don, and came of age dur­ing the end of Africa’s era of decol­o­niza­tion. To a lis­ten­er reared on Anglo-Amer­i­can pop­u­lar music, his sig­na­ture mix­ture of West African rhythms with jazz and funk tex­tures sounds famil­iar enough — at least for the first ten or fif­teen min­utes, after which time the lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence ascends to a dif­fer­ent state entire­ly.

Some­times it takes Fela just about that long to start singing, and when he does, he’s giv­en to procla­ma­tions, chants, calls-and-respons­es, and polit­i­cal exhor­ta­tions deliv­ered in the kind of Eng­lish that sounds high­ly unfa­mil­iar to non-African lis­ten­ers. Not that it’s always alien­at­ing: indeed, this par­tic­u­lar com­bi­na­tion of words and music has cap­ti­vat­ed gen­er­a­tions of lis­ten­ers from far out­side its place of ori­gin. One of them is David Byrne, who used Talk­ing Heads’ Remain in Light as more or less a medi­um for chan­nel­ing the musi­cal spir­it of Fela. Not that he him­self was gone yet: indeed, he had almost two decades of his event­ful life to go, one you can learn much more about from Fela Kuti: Fear No Man, a twelve-part bio­graph­i­cal pod­cast by Jad Abum­rad.

Brought into Fela’s world by a fam­i­ly con­nec­tion, that for­mer Radi­o­lab host con­duct­ed dozens and dozens of inter­views on the rela­tion­ship between the man, his music, and the polit­i­cal con­text in which he found him­self. The facts, as any Fela fan knows, don’t always align com­fort­ably with main­stream sen­si­bil­i­ties of the twen­ty-twen­ties — the charges range from essen­tial­ism to polygamy — but as Lefevre reminds us, an artist should be inter­pret­ed through the lens of his own cul­ture and his­to­ry. How­ev­er many of us con­sid­er him a “prob­lem­at­ic fave” today, Fela Kuti will always be the man who invent­ed Afrobeat — and since nobody else has quite man­aged to repli­cate his grooves in their simul­ta­ne­ous tight­ness and loose­ness, blunt­ness and sub­tle­ty, per­haps also the man who dis­solved it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to the Life & Music of Fela Kuti: Rad­i­cal Niger­ian Band­leader, Polit­i­cal Hero, and Cre­ator of Afrobeat

When Afrobeat Leg­end Fela Kuti Col­lab­o­rat­ed with Cream Drum­mer Gin­ger Bak­er

Zam­rock: An Intro­duc­tion to Zambia’s 1970s Rich & Psy­che­del­ic Rock Scene

Watch the Talk­ing Heads Play Mate­r­i­al From Their Ground­break­ing Album Remain in Light in an Incred­i­ble Con­cert from 1980

The Awe-Inspir­ing But Trag­ic Sto­ry of Africa’s Fes­ti­val In The Desert (2001–2012)

Stream 8,000 Vin­tage Afropop Record­ings Dig­i­tized & Made Avail­able by The British Library

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

What Pompeii Looked Like Hours Before Its Destruction: A Reconstruction

How­ev­er cel­e­brat­ed by his­to­ri­ans, scru­ti­nized by archae­ol­o­gists, and descend­ed-upon by tourists it may be, Pom­peii is not excep­tion­al — not even in the fate of hav­ing been buried in ash by Mount Vesu­vius in the year 76, which also hap­pened to the near­by town of Her­cu­la­neum. Rather, it is the sheer ordi­nar­i­ness of that medi­um-sized provin­cial Roman city that we most val­ue today, inad­ver­tent­ly pre­served as it was by that vol­canic dis­as­ter. The new Lost in Time video above recon­structs Pom­peii as it must have looked at the very end of its days, tak­ing a look at every­thing from its homes to its aque­ducts, its forum to its basil­i­ca, and its wine and per­fume pro­duc­tion facil­i­ties to its glad­i­a­to­r­i­al are­na.

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, the Amphithe­atre of Pom­peii is much small­er than the Colos­se­um. But it was actu­al­ly built 140 years ear­li­er, at a time when local lead­ers across the empire were already start­ing to feel that any self-respect­ing Roman town ought to have its own venue for spec­ta­cles involv­ing one-on-one com­bat, feats of ath­leti­cism, exot­ic ani­mals, and even pub­lic exe­cu­tions.

The same ulti­mate­ly went for all the types of facil­i­ties unearthed in the entombed city’s pub­lic spaces and pri­vate homes alike, includ­ing baths, snack bars, and din­ing rooms. To that extent, Pom­peii had it all, even if life there lacked the poten­tial for advance­ment and intrigue offered only by the Eter­nal City.

As the video gives its tour of a still-thriv­ing Pom­peii, it counts down to the erup­tion of Vesu­vius, which last­ed about two days. “Why did­n’t peo­ple leave the city?” asks the nar­ra­tor. “His­to­ri­ans claim that about 2,000 peo­ple lost their lives in Pom­peii that day, mean­ing about 10,000 man­aged to escape.” It is to the writ­ings of one such escapee, Pliny the Younger, that we owe much of what we know about the expe­ri­ence of the cat­a­stro­phe itself — and to cen­turies of exam­i­na­tion since its redis­cov­ery as an archae­o­log­i­cal site that we have the kind of knowl­edge about the place that goes into a recon­struc­tion like this one. Those efforts have fed our under­stand­ing of life in the ancient world as a whole, for in its after­life, Pom­peii has become not just a medi­um-sized provin­cial Roman city, but the medi­um-sized provin­cial Roman city.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Destruc­tion of Pom­peii by Mount Vesu­vius, Re-Cre­at­ed with Com­put­er Ani­ma­tion (79 AD)

Take a High Def, Guid­ed Tour of Pom­peii

Behold 3D Recre­ations of Pompeii’s Lav­ish Homes–As They Exist­ed Before the Erup­tion of Mount Vesu­vius

The Last Morn­ing in Pom­peii & The Night Pom­peii Died: A New Video Series Explores the End of the Doomed Roman City

The Only Writ­ten Eye-Wit­ness Account of Pompeii’s Destruc­tion: Hear Pliny the Younger’s Let­ters on the Mount Vesu­vius Erup­tion

The Only Writ­ten Eye-Wit­ness Account of Pompeii’s Destruc­tion: Hear Pliny the Younger’s Let­ters on the Mount Vesu­vius Erup­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A Visual Timeline of World History: Watch the Rise & Fall of Civilizations Over 5,000 Years

In the video above, Use­fulCharts cre­ator Matt Bak­er sug­gests that we not refer to the peri­od span­ning the fifth and the late fif­teenth cen­turies as the “dark ages.” In jus­ti­fi­ca­tion, he does­n’t put forth the argu­ment, now fair­ly com­mon, that the time in ques­tion was actu­al­ly full of sub­tle inno­va­tion occlud­ed by mod­ern prej­u­dice. The real prob­lem, as he sees it, is that the slow­ing, if not revers­ing, of the progress of human soci­ety that we’ve tra­di­tion­al­ly regard­ed as occur­ring in what are com­mon­ly known as the Mid­dle Ages only occurred in Europe. What’s more, there have been mul­ti­ple such eras in the world: take the ear­li­er “Greek dark ages” asso­ci­at­ed with the Bronze Age civ­i­liza­tion­al col­lapse of 1177 BC.

All this and more comes across at a glance on Bak­er’s Time­line of World His­to­ry, whose design is explained in the video. With char­ac­ter­is­tic Use­fulCharts clar­i­ty (also demon­strat­ed by the World Reli­gions Fam­i­ly Tree and the Evo­lu­tion of the Alpha­bet, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture), it lays out all the peri­ods of his­to­ry we may know bet­ter by their names than by their rela­tion­ship to actu­al events.

At the top, it begins with the end of pre­his­to­ry and the start of his­to­ry: that is, when writ­ing devel­oped around 5,300 years ago. At that point, mul­ti­ple civ­i­liza­tions had already begun to estab­lish them­selves around the world, and it is their growth and decline rep­re­sent­ed by the thick­ness of the lines run­ning down the time­line’s reg­u­lar cen­tu­ry-long divi­sions.

As the ear­ly Bronze Age gives way to the Bronze Age, the Bronze Age gives way to the Iron Age, and the Iron Age gives way to Clas­si­cal Antiq­ui­ty, these lines of civ­i­liza­tion thick­en into those of empire. None come thick­er than that of ancient Rome, which occu­pies the visu­al cen­ter of the poster (itself, inci­den­tal­ly, avail­able for pur­chase from Use­fulCharts’ site), but the design’s strength lies less in under­scor­ing the impor­tance of any one empire than of reveal­ing how much his­to­ry was going on all over the world at any giv­en time. Using its ver­ti­cal lines to trace the rise and fall of the Olmecs, say, or the Aksum­ite Empire or the Mis­sis­sip­pi­an Cul­ture, one can hard­ly sup­press a feel­ing of Ozy­man­di­an tran­sience. Nor, for that mat­ter, can one ignore that all of us live out our lives with­in the span of two of its hor­i­zon­tal ones.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Inter­ac­tive Time­line Cov­er­ing 14 Bil­lion Years of His­to­ry: From The Big Bang to 2015

The His­to­ry of Civ­i­liza­tion Mapped in 13 Min­utes: 5000 BC to 2014 AD

World Reli­gions Explained with Use­ful Charts: Hin­duism, Bud­dhism, Judaism, Islam, Chris­tian­i­ty & More

The His­to­ry of the Earth (All 4.5 Bil­lion Years) in 1 Hour: A Mil­lion Years Cov­ered Every Sec­ond

6,000 Years of His­to­ry Visu­al­ized in a 23-Foot-Long Time­line of World His­to­ry, Cre­at­ed in 1871

The Writ­ing Sys­tems of the World Explained, from the Latin Alpha­bet to the Abugi­das of India

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Hear Debussy Play Debussy: A Vintage Recording from 1913

A cen­tu­ry ago, the great French com­pos­er Claude Debussy sat down at a con­trap­tion called a Welte-Mignon repro­duc­ing piano and record­ed a series of per­for­mances for pos­ter­i­ty. The machine was designed to encode the nuances of a pianist’s play­ing, includ­ing ped­al­ing and dynam­ics, onto piano rolls for lat­er repro­duc­tion.

Debussy record­ed 14 pieces onto six rolls in Paris on or before Novem­ber 1, 1913. Accord­ing to Debussy enthu­si­ast Steve Bryson’s web site, the com­pos­er was delight­ed with the repro­duc­tion qual­i­ty, say­ing in a let­ter to Edwin Welte: “It is impos­si­ble to attain a greater per­fec­tion of repro­duc­tion than that of the Welte appa­ra­tus. I am hap­py to assure you in these lines of my aston­ish­ment and admi­ra­tion of what I heard. I am, Dear Sir, Yours Faith­ful­ly, Claude Debussy.”

The selec­tion above is “La soirée dans Grenade” (“Grena­da in the evening”), from Debussy’s 1903 trio of com­po­si­tions titled Estam­pes, or “Prints.” Debussy was inspired by the Sym­bol­ist poets and Impres­sion­ist painters who strove to go beyond the sur­face of a sub­ject to evoke the feel­ing it gave off. “La soirée dans Grenade” is described by Chris­tine Steven­son at Notes From a Pianist as a “sound pic­ture” of Moor­ish Spain:

Debussy’s first-hand expe­ri­ence of Spain was neg­li­gi­ble at that time, but he imme­di­ate­ly con­jures up the coun­try by using the per­sua­sive Haben­era dance rhythm to open the piece–softly and sub­tly. It insin­u­ates itself into our con­scious­ness with its qui­et insis­tence on a repeat­ed C sharp in dif­fer­ent reg­is­ters; around it cir­cles a lan­guid, Moor­ish arabesque, with nasal aug­ment­ed 2nds, and a nag­ging semi­tone pulling against the tonal cen­tre, occa­sion­al­ly inter­rupt­ed by mut­ter­ing semi­qua­vers [16th notes] and a whole-tone based pas­sage. Debussy writes Com­mencer lente­ment dans un rythme non­cha­la­m­ment gra­cieux [Begin slow­ly in a casu­al­ly grace­ful rhythm] at the begin­ning, but lat­er Tres ryth­mé [Very rhyth­mic] in a bright­ly lit A major as the dance comes out of the shad­ows, ff [Fortissimo–loudly], with the click of cas­tanets and the stamp­ing of feet.

Debussy was 52 years old and suf­fer­ing from can­cer when he made his piano roll record­ings. He died less than five years lat­er, on March 25, 1918. Since then, his beau­ti­ful and evoca­tive music has secured a place for him as one of the most influ­en­tial and pop­u­lar com­posers of the 20th cen­tu­ry. As Roger Hecht writes at Clas­si­cal Net, “Debussy was a dream­er whose music dreamed with him.”

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear The Rite of Spring Con­duct­ed by Igor Stravin­sky Him­self: A Vin­tage Record­ing from 1929

Hear a 1930 Record­ing of Bolero, Con­duct­ed by Rav­el Him­self

Rare 1946 Film: The Great Russ­ian Com­pos­er Sergei Prokofiev Plays Piano, Dis­cuss­es His Music

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